Helena took a sip of her tea. “Do you know why there’s so much local superstition about the Abbey?”
“Not with any certainty. There’ve been rumors about ghostly monks and buried treasure for as long as I can remember. I believed them myself when I was a boy.”
“Is that why you and your friends climbed down the cliffs to sail there every week?”
He crumbled a piece of cake on his plate, seeming to consider his answer. “No. Not entirely. Though Finchley was always hopeful we’d find a hidden cache of gold.”
Her eyes widened. “Mr. Finchley?”
“Didn’t he tell you?”
Helena shook her head. Mr. Finchley had been young and even handsome after a fashion, but his manner, however kind, had been strictly professional. He’d told her nothing about himself, and the information he’d conveyed about Justin had been more in the way of reassurances than confidences.
She recalled how he’d leaned across his desk to hand her his handkerchief, his light blue eyes unerringly sympathetic. “Thornhill will protect you,” he’d promised. “Once you’re his wife, no one will ever touch you again. That I can guarantee.”
“The four of us were in the orphanage together,” Justin said. “Me, Neville, Finchley, and another boy, Alex Archer. We were like brothers.”
“And you’ve all remained friends?”
“Not as we once were,” he said. “Finchley was articled to a solicitor in London and Neville had his accident. I joined the army and Archer…” His face grew somber. “Archer broke his apprenticeship and disappeared. We none of us know what happened to him. I’ve long suspected he’s dead.”
“I’m sorry,” she said.
He shrugged. “It’s of little matter.”
Helena could see that that wasn’t entirely true. Justin didn’t appear indifferent to the fate of his friend. Quite the opposite. “They were like your family,” she said softly.
“We were orphans, Helena. They were my family.”
“And they accompanied you every week on your sail to the Abbey. But not to look for treasure. Why then?” she wondered aloud.
“We were always sneaking about the Abbey’s grounds. Digging holes and crawling in through half-open windows. I’m rather amazed none of us was ever brought up before the magistrate.”
“Was the Abbey empty then?”
It seemed an innocent enough question, but Justin’s expression—already so thoughtful and somber—grew shuttered. It was as if he’d firmly closed a door in her face. Not only closed it, but barred it and bolted it, too. When he next spoke, Helena had the distinct impression he wasn’t being wholly forthcoming.
“It was owned by a baronet,” he said. “Sir Oswald Bannister. He was always well in his cups whenever we came calling.”
“But then…how did you come to live at the Abbey? Did you purchase it from him?”
A line of tension tightened Justin’s jaw. “In a manner of speaking.”
“I’m sorry. It’s none of my business.”
“You’ll hear it eventually from some well-meaning busybody.”
“Perhaps, but—”
Justin cut her off in a hard voice. “Sir Oswald had a propensity for deep play. After he ran through the rest of his assets, he borrowed against the Abbey. I was in India at the time, but when I heard of his predicament…” He gave her a look filled with a bewildering mixture of bitterness, pain, and something very like triumph. “I had Finchley buy up his mortgages and then—when Sir Oswald was at his lowest ebb—I called in all of his debt.”
A chill skated down Helena’s spine. She leaned back in her chair, unconsciously drawing away from him. “That seems rather heartless.”
“It was nothing less than he deserved.”
She waited for Justin to explain, but he did not. The silence hung between them, taut and uncomfortable. Helena didn’t like it. And she didn’t like herself for being so judgmental. She had told him only yesterday that the past didn’t matter. He’d tried to confess something about the Abbey then, hadn’t he? In her desperation it had all seemed so unimportant. But now…
Now that their wedding was so close and so certain, she felt the familiar fear take hold of her. “There’s much we don’t know about each other.”
Justin was watching her. “Having second thoughts?”
“No,” she said. And it was the truth. She hadn’t the luxury of second thoughts. “I expect all couples who meet by matrimonial advertisement find themselves in our predicament. They are strangers, after all.”
“I’m not concerned.” His voice deepened. “You can learn me, if you have a mind to.”
Helena’s stomach performed another disconcerting gyration. It was butterflies, she realized with some chagrin. A veritable flock of them, each unfurling their wings and taking flight and—
Good heavens.
But she was a woman of five and twenty, not some green girl quivering and fluttering in the presence of a handsome lad.
She lifted her chin. “You will have to learn me as well, sir.”
Justin’s mouth quirked in that wry, shadow of a smile with which she was fast becoming familiar. “I shall look forward to it, ma’am.”
She couldn’t tell if he was mocking her. Or flirting with her. Either way, there seemed nothing to say to such a statement. She decided it was safer not to respond at all. She dropped her gaze to the fireplace, attempting to regain some small measure of her lost composure.
The flames crackled ominously in the grate as a log of burned wood snapped in half and fell into the ashes. It was the only sound in the room. Justin appeared to comprehend the significance of this at the same instant she did. He stood abruptly from his chair and walked the short distance to the window. She rose and followed after him.
“It’s stopped raining,” he said.
She looked out the window at the inn yard. Everything was wet and muddy—including the team of horses an ostler was hitching to a coach—but the rainclouds had drifted past and the sun was shining brightly in the now clear, blue sky. She glanced up at Justin. “Will you have to ride back to the Abbey before the rain starts again?”
“It won’t rain again. Not for a while.” He tilted his head. “Though judging from the direction of those clouds, it looks like Abbot’s Holcombe is in for quite a downpour.”
“I hope it won’t rain on our wedding day.”
“It won’t matter if it does. We’ll take the carriage.” He turned to face her, his eyes lowering briefly to her skirts. “You’ve dropped your shawl.”
She looked down. Her shawl was still threaded through her right arm, but the left end had fallen to the floor in a heap of red and gold cashmere. She moved to retrieve it, but he anticipated her, bending swiftly to sweep the heavy fabric up in his hand
“Here you are,” he said as he straightened. “May I?
She nodded and then stood, still as a Grecian statue, while he draped the shawl around her shoulder and back over her left arm. When he finished, she murmured her thanks, but Justin didn’t let go of the fabric. He merely stared down at her, holding her questioning gaze for an achingly long moment.
“Helena…”
“Yes?”
“I’d like very much to kiss you,” he said. “If I may.”
Color crept into her face. He was standing awfully close to her. Just as close as when he’d touched her, so tenderly, yesterday on the beach. Her pulse quickened at the memory. “Very well.”
He brought his fingers to the curve of her cheek. She inhaled a shallow breath, holding herself immobile as he traced a path down the edge of her jaw to cup her chin. He tilted her face up. And then he bent his head and brushed his lips very softly and very slowly across her own.
Helena’s mouth trembled beneath his, but she did not kiss him back. Nor did she move to touch him in return. She remained still, her eyes clos
ed and her arms at her sides, fingers twisting into the folds of her shawl.
He smelled of the rainstorm. Of horses, leather, and some faint, masculine fragrance that must be his shaving soap. It made her knees tremble and she wondered, absently, how a scent could affect one’s knees of all places. But then he kissed her again, warm and firm, and she forgot about her knees. She forgot about everything except the dizzying pressure of his gently insistent mouth.
It lasted only minutes—seconds—and then a horse whinnied shrilly from the inn yard. An ostler shouted: “Catch hold of that bay, Fred! He’s a lively one!”
Justin’s lips stilled on hers. “The devil,” he muttered hoarsely.
She opened her eyes, startled.
He raised his head. His jaw was as hard as granite and she could see a muscle working in his cheek. “I’m sorry, Helena.”
“Whatever for?”
“For being so bloody careless.” His hand at her waist, he drew her away from the window.
The window.
“Oh no,” she said. “Oh, how dreadful.”
Who had been out in the yard? She tried desperately to recall. There’d been the ostler, of course. And then there were the grooms and whoever had stopped to changed horses.
What about Mr. and Mrs. Blevins? Had they happened by as well?
“After all I’ve done to safeguard your reputation,” Justin said under his breath.
Helena didn’t give a fig for her reputation. Gossip, on the other hand, was an entirely different matter. The last thing she wanted was to make herself memorable here in the village. “Do you suppose anyone saw us?”
Justin glanced back toward the window with a frown. “I don’t know.”
She folded her arms in front of her to stave off a shiver. The fire had dwindled to a small, struggling flame. She moved to stand in front of it, turning her back to Justin. She could hardly bring herself to look at him. She was growing more embarrassed about their kiss by the minute. Even more so because Justin himself appeared to be relatively unaffected by the intimacy.
“If they did, we’ve a simple enough explanation.” He came to stand behind her. “We’re going to be married tomorrow after all.”
Helena felt the weight of his hands as he brought them to rest on her upper arms. The jolt of pain was instantaneous. She gasped and pulled away, only to cry out as Justin reached for her again, his fingers clenching around her left arm in a viselike grip.
“Damn it, Helena!” He jerked her clear of the hearth. “Get away from there before you catch your skirts on fire!”
Helena looked up into his furious face, mortified to feel the sting of tears starting in her eyes. He let go of her as soon as she was a safe distance from the fireplace, but the throbbing from her bruises was unceasing. She drew back from him, her hand lifting instinctively to cover her arm. “You mustn’t ever grab me like that.”
“And you mustn’t stand close to an open flame in skirts of this size. One stray ember and you’d have gone up like a torch. Don’t you read the papers? Women have burned to death.”
“Please don’t shout at me.”
“I’m not shouting, but—” Justin raked a hand through his hair. “If you don’t wish me to touch you—”
“No,” she protested.
“If I disgust you or frighten you—”
“No,” she said again. “No, Justin.” But he wasn’t listening to her. He was too angry. No, not angry. He was hurt.
“You nearly stepped into the fire rather than let me touch your arm. Your arm, Helena. You’re an innocent, I have no doubt, but surely you’re aware that, as your husband, I’ll need to touch more than your arm on occasion. If you’re so appalled at the idea, it’s better we end this now.”
Panic surged in Helena’s breast. Everything was beginning to unravel. Months of planning, disintegrating before her eyes. She didn’t know how to make it right. And if he refused to marry her, all would be lost.
She would be lost.
“My arm is bruised,” she blurted out.
Justin made a sound like a groan. “Already?”
“No. Not because of you. It was bruised before I came here.” She looked at him, silently pleading with him to understand.
And, miraculously, it seemed he did. She saw it in the way his gaze sharpened, fixing on her like a hawk homing in on a field mouse. “How?”
“A silly accident. It’s not important.”
“Helena—”
“I would have said something on the beach path, but I didn’t like to admit how clumsy I am. Always tripping and falling, bruising myself all over. It’s not a very becoming trait.”
An expression of disquiet darkened his features. “Is that what happened to your arm? You tripped and fell?” He looked skeptical, if not downright disbelieving.
“It was an accident,” she said again. “I don’t wish to speak of it. And I wouldn’t have done so except I can’t bear for you to think—”
“That I repulse you? That you can’t tolerate my touch?”
She took a steadying breath. When next she spoke, her voice was low and even—and completely sincere. “You don’t repulse me.”
Justin searched her face. Whatever he found there appeared to satisfy him to some small degree. He still looked troubled, but the hurt and anger were slowly receding. “Don’t I? That’s something, at least.” He ran his hand over the back of his neck. The silence stretched out between them for several uncomfortable seconds. “I beg your pardon for raising my voice,” he said at last. “And for my language, as well.”
“You’ve nothing to apologize for.”
“I shouted at you like you were a wayward soldier in my regiment.” He gave a short, humorless laugh. “I tend to lose my composure when I see a lady walking into an open flame.”
Helena’s gaze dropped briefly to the burns on the side of his neck and jaw. He’d said he had been flayed alive by rebel sepoys. She wasn’t entirely certain what that meant, but if it was half as horrible as it sounded, then it was no wonder he had a healthy respect for the destructive power of fire.
“I’m sorry if I hurt your arm,” he said. “I didn’t intend—”
“Don’t. There’s really no need.”
“I think there is.”
“No,” she said. “In fact, I’d as soon we forgot this whole episode. That is…unless you’ve changed your mind.”
“About what?”
“Marrying me.”
He huffed. As if the mere idea amused him somehow. “No.” And then again, more emphatically, “No. But if you’re having second thoughts—”
“I’m not,” Helena said swiftly. “Truly, I’m not.” She forced a tremulous smile, hoping she looked braver than she felt. “Indeed, as far as I’m concerned, tomorrow can’t come fast enough.”
By the time Justin arrived back at the Abbey, the rain had started again. The wind was high and the sky was fast becoming gray. His horse, a raw-boned stallion called Hiran, stamped with impatience as he dismounted and led him into the stone stable. It was warm and dry there, the smell of fresh hay permeating the air.
Neville was mucking out one of the loose boxes. He came to the door as Justin entered, a pitchfork clutched in one brawny hand. “Does he want his mash?”
Justin proceeded to remove Hiran’s bridle and saddle. “He’s earned it.”
Neville cast aside his pitchfork and departed for the feed room.
“Where the devil is Danvers?” Justin called after him.
“Sleeping,” Neville called back.
Justin scowled. Sleeping off the drink, more like.
Between the coachman and the cook, it was a miracle there was a drop of alcohol left in the place. He had half a mind to give them both the sack. Then again, he was unlikely to find servants willing to replace them. Not in this part of the world,
at least. Even worse, if he let the pair of them go, there was every chance they’d end up in the workhouse.
No matter. He preferred looking after Hiran himself. The handsome chestnut had belonged to one of his captors in India. He’d been in the nature of a parting gift. A measure of compensation, dispensed on the day the British recaptured Cawnpore.
It had been nearly one month after the tragic events at Sati Chaura Ghat. When the soldiers raided Nana Sahib’s palace, they’d found Justin there, chained to a dungeon wall. He’d been filthy and weak, the burns on his neck and sides festering for lack of care. After freeing him, the soldiers had gone through the palace and grounds, seizing everything of value. They’d taken the horses, camels, and elephants. And, when they were done, they had burned the palace to the ground.
It had been Hiran who’d carried Justin back to the safety of the British camp.
In the days that followed, no one had stepped forward to stake an opposing claim to the stallion. Indeed, no one had stepped forward to say much of anything at all. The camp doctor had treated Justin as best he could in grim silence, dabbing salve onto his burns and dosing him with laudanum. The weight of his judgment had been present in every touch.
Justin had returned to England less than three months later, Hiran in tow.
He was a fine horse with a valiant heart. He was also a constant reminder of what had happened in India. An equine albatross, Finchley had called him.
“You torture yourself more effectively than those sepoys ever could,” he often said.
Finchley was an endless fount of wisdom. Full of advice for everyone else, all the while he hid himself away in that office of his, buried in his dusty law books and briefs.
It would serve him right if some well-meaning friend submitted a matrimonial advertisement on his behalf.
Justin carried Hiran’s bridle and saddle to the tack room and retrieved two stiff brushes. When he returned, he set to work on Hiran’s coat, removing the mud and sweat with long, brisk strokes. As he brushed, his thoughts drifted from Finchley’s hypothetical matrimonial advertisement to the stark reality of his own impending marriage.
The Matrimonial Advertisement Page 7